His Finest Performance
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: Sherlock's death was just a trick.  It had to be.  Right?  Sherlock/John John/Sherlock SH/JW JW/SH Contains slash.


His Finest Performance

*Author's Note: This story takes place right near the end of the episode "The Reichenbach Fall" in series two. A couple of the bits of dialogue are direct quotes, like what John says to Sherlock's gravestone, but only one or two. This story contains slash since Sherlock and John really just need to get together already. Since the show refuses to hook them up, I'll just have to do it for them. Enjoy!*

It's all a trick, just slight of hand.

Sherlock inches closer to the ledge, the toes of his immaculate shoes poking out into open air.

It's all a trick, John just isn't in on the plan.

"Look at me, John. Don't stop looking at me." Like John could do anything else. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, taking a shuddering breath, preparing himself. Then his eyes snap open again and his crisp, blue gaze locks on John once more. John's thoughts are frozen, moving sluggishly through his panicked brain. He can't comprehend what's going on. His senses are telling him that Sherlock is standing on the ledge of the building in front of him, teetering, tottering on the edge of disaster, but John's brain can't process that. What his senses are telling him is impossible. They must be wrong. Sherlock always finds a way out.

Sherlock is speaking, saying gibberish John doesn't understand. Why is Sherlock telling him these things? He knows they're lies, knows that it's all been real. John believes in Sherlock completely. He can't help it. At this point his faith in Sherlock has become part of who he is.

Then the world is tipping, tripping, and Sherlock has stepped out into empty space.

It's all a trick. It has to be.

Sherlock's arms and legs kick out, spinning like he's trying to catch himself on something, but there's only air.

It's all just a trick, the ultimate vanishing act.

Sherlock smacks into the pavement. His cellphone lands next to him, shattering on the sidewalk, as crumpled and broken as Sherlock's own frame.

This can't be happening, can't be real. John is frozen for a moment, still holding his phone to his ear as though expecting to hear Sherlock's chocolaty voice from its speakers again, as if Sherlock is still ok somewhere, still able to speak. Then John drops his cellphone and is running, pushing through the gathering crowd of curious people.

"He's my friend! Let me through!" People reluctantly part, revealing the body on the ground. "He's my friend!"

Sherlock always told John not to make him into a hero, but he looks like an angel spread eagle on the pavement like that. John can't help thinking it.

Sherlock is so pale. He always has been, but he looks even paler now, covered in bright, crimson blood.

It's a trick. It's a trick. It's a trick.

It can't be real.

John crumples by Sherlock's side, torn between his instincts as a best friend and as a doctor. The friend in John wants to cradle Sherlock in his arms and sob. The doctor in him knows that he shouldn't. Sherlock shouldn't be moved without extreme care.

John's heart is pounding in his ears, in his throat, but John has had to work under severe stress before. He wasn't an army doctor for nothing. John grapples at Sherlock's unmoving arm, feeling for a pulse. Is that a beat? John can't quite tell, but it could be.

An authoritative voice tells John to step back. Strong hands curl around John's shoulders, tugging him away from Sherlock's prone form. EMTs are hoisting Sherlock onto a gurney and wheeling him away. For just an instant John catches sight of Sherlock's still open eyes. They're so blue, so blank.

_"Look at me, John."_ John can't do anything else. He never could.

-XXXXXXX-

Dead. The word echoes around John's head, but doesn't really register. He almost feels like laughing. It's such a good joke. Of course Sherlock isn't dead. He's Sherlock Holmes. No one beats Sherlock Holmes, not even death.

It isn't until they lead him into the room to see the body that the despair and panic hit. Sherlock is stretched out on a long, white table. A sheet covers everything but his face. So cold, so pale, so fair.

It's all a trick, like a magician with cards. John just wishes believing that would stop getting so hard.

John turns and strides from the room. He knows that he's running away, but he can't help it. He can't be here.

-XXXXXXX-

Sherlock's gravestone is simple and classy, just a basic arch of grey stone. John thinks it looks too neat to represent Sherlock. Sherlock was always so messy.

"One more thing," John whispers to the cold stone, "one more miracle, Sherlock, for me: don't be dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it, stop this?" He can barely get the words out, can barely keep the tears at bay. He knows it's a stupid thing to say, knows that Sherlock can't come back from the dead no matter how nicely he asks, but he can't help it. He knows it's completely crazy, completely irrational, but he still believes in Sherlock. He probably always will, and that part of him still clings to the hope that all of this is just a trick, Sherlock's most elaborate scheme of all, a magician's finest vanishing act.

John wants to scream, wants to claw at the dirt until he can see Sherlock's face again, but instead he just turns, striding stoically from the graveyard.

He was so alone before he met Sherlock. He can't stand the idea of being alone again.

-XXXXXXX-

John's therapist is undoubtedly a great therapist. She understands his problems, has solid suggestions for ways to cope. It isn't her fault she's useless. John leaves his latest therapy session feeling just as bad as when he came, just as hopeless, just as depressed.

Sherlock had given so much back to him when he was alive. He had made John feel alive again, had given him excitement and companionship. Now John will just have to find another way to get those things. Too bad John can't think of another way. No one can replace Sherlock in John's life. Not really.

As much as John had never wanted to admit it, girlfriends had always been secondary to his friendship with Sherlock. They had been fun, a way to satisfy his romantic impulses, but none of them had really meant anything to him. Not compared to Sherlock. They seem even less important now.

John's phone vibrates in his pocket and he absently pulls it out, wondering which worried friend is checking in on him now. Ever since Sherlock's death, everyone seems to be convinced John is going to jump off a bridge or something. He appreciates their concern, but texting him every couple of hours seems a bit excessive. It's not like a quick text saying, "Hey, how are you?" would prevent him jumping off a bridge if he really wanted to anyway.

The text isn't from a concerned friend, though. There's no name identifying the sender, just a phone number, but John doesn't need a name. He would recognize that number anywhere. John feels his breath catch in his throat, feels his pulse quicken beneath his skin. It can't be. This has to be some kind of joke. A really, really awful joke.

John taps on the text icon, opening the message.

"We're out of milk. –SH"

John stares at the soft glow of the screen, completely lost for words. This must be a prank of some sort. Sherlock is gone, dead. He can't text anyone. Besides, even if Sherlock is miraculously, impossibly alive, his cellphone had smashed in the fall that killed him. This can't be Sherlock.

John's phone buzzes again.

"You keep the same number when you replace your phone. Nice try, though. –SH"

John blinks once. Twice. This can't be happening. Only one person has ever read John's mind like that. John starts to run. He knows he's behaving foolishly, that the chances of this actually being Sherlock are almost non-existent, but he can't help the thrill of hope rising in his chest. Part of him still clings to the idea that this is all just some elaborate trick of Sherlock's. Even after all this time he hasn't been able to let that notion go. He doesn't want to let it go. To get rid of that would hope would almost be like killing Sherlock all over again.

John bursts into 221 Baker Street, sprinting up the stairs. It isn't until he reaches the top and is facing the door to the flat he had shared with Sherlock for so long that she stops. His breath is coming in sharp pants and his muscles are aching from running so long, but that isn't what stops him. A paralyzing fear grips John, clinging to his limbs and holding him in place.

What if he opens the door and Sherlock isn't there? What if this really is just a cruel joke? John doesn't think he can handle another disappointment.

But what if Sherlock is in there? What if this thin rectangle of wood is the only thing keeping him from the genius detective?

Hands shaking, John opens the door.

"You didn't get the milk," observes a deep, rich voice.

John is frozen, caught in such an intense whirl of emotions that he can't move, can't even think. Sherlock is lounging in the arm chair directly in front of the door, his violin perched on his shoulder, the bow held loosely between long, delicate fingers. He looks just as John remembers him; tall, slender, and pale with that mop of dark curls falling around his face. His eyes are calculating as they watch John, observing the other man's reaction.

"Am I going insane?" John asks quietly, not daring to move. If he moves Sherlock might vanish, melt into thin air like a wisp of smoke.

"Doubtful," replies Sherlock calmly. "You've always seemed quite mentally sound to me."

"Then," stutters John, "then you're really-" He coughs, his throat suddenly dry and raspy. "really here?"

Sherlock's casual demeanor melts away at those words, sorrow welling up in his crystal clear eyes. He gets to his feet gracefully, setting the violin on the floor. He crosses over to John, placing a hand on each of John's shoulders and squeezing gently. His hands are warm against John's skin, warm and solid.

"Yes, John," he murmurs soothingly. "I'm really here."

"But, but you died. You couldn't have- couldn't have survived that fall." John reaches out, gripping Sherlock's forearms in an iron tight hold.

It was all a trick, just slight of hand.

"Honestly, John. I _am_ a genius." That smug smirk is so painfully familiar. John's stomach flips at the sight.

It was all a trick, John just wasn't in on the plan.

John pushes back Sherlock's sleeves, tracing the web of blue veins visible just beneath the detective's pallid flesh. Feels real, looks real.

"You're really here."

It was all a trick. It had to have been.

It was all just a trick.

"The ultimate vanishing act." Sherlock still sounds rather smug, obviously proud of himself.

Pain shoots through John's fist as it connects with the sharp angle of Sherlock's jaw. Tears stream unchecked down John's face, his eyes stinging as a mixture of anger and relief clots in his throat.

"So you've just been letting me think you're dead?" he shouts, hurt and furious. "I've been- I thought- all this time! How could you do this to me?"

All traces of self-satisfaction are gone from Sherlock's face. Now he just looks sad.

"I had to," he murmurs, not even bothering to rub his surely aching jaw. Instead he just places his hands back on John's shoulders, reassuring the other man.

"No," John whispers, drained, "you didn't have to, Sherlock." He leans forward, curling into Sherlock's chest. He can hear Sherlock's heartbeat thudding under his ear. He has never been more grateful for the sound. Awkward, hesitant arms fold John into an embrace, cradling his torso gently. Sherlock has never been good at displays of affection, but even he can tell one is needed now.

"Don't you ever die on me again," John mutters into Sherlock's slender chest.

"Well obviously I can't promise that," argues Sherlock. "Everyone has to die sometime."

"Oh, just shut up, Sherlock," groans John, pulling slightly away from the tall genius. "You don't have to be right all the time."

"Well, actually-" Sherlock begins. He never gets to finish that sentence. John's hands tangle themselves into Sherlock's dark curls, dragging the detective's head down into a desperate kiss. Sherlock freezes under John's lips, taken aback. He doesn't know how he should respond to such a gesture.

Angry teeth nip at Sherlock's lower lip and he gasps, this startled intake of breath allowing John's tongue to slip into Sherlock's mouth. It doesn't feel bad.

John's cheeks are still wet with tears and he is clinging to Sherlock as though afraid that if he lets go, Sherlock will slip away, back into that murky, unattainable place called death. Sherlock frowns for a moment, then relaxes, kissing John back. He's already hurt John so much. It's time to start making it up to him.

John finally relaxes his bruising grip on Sherlock's hair, instead allowing his hands to slide down the back of Sherlock's neck to trace the rise and fall of each vertebrae in Sherlock's spine. Sherlock is so skinny for someone strong enough to defeat death himself. John's calloused fingers come to rest on the hem of Sherlock's crisp, white shirt, tugging it up and over Sherlock's head in one clumsy motion. Sherlock's chest is so pale, so defined. John runs his hands over every ridge of muscle in Sherlock's abdomen, reaffirming with each caress that Sherlock really is here, really is alive.

It was all a trick.

Sherlock's belt clatters to the floor. John's shirt lands in a crumpled heap on top of it. John stands on tip-toe, tilting his head up to trail kisses along the regal column of Sherlock's neck. Teeth nip at Sherlock's wan skin, drawing a gasp from the genius. He doesn't have must experience with this sort of thing. It's never really held any interest for him before now.

Hurried fingers fumble with Sherlock's zipper, jerking the cold metal down so that the offending material can be kicked off. Sherlock deftly returns the favor, freeing John of his trousers with much more grace than John could muster under the circumstances. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to get the hang of this irritatingly quickly.

It isn't until his fingertips are curled under the hem of Sherlock's boxers that John pauses, looking up to examine Sherlock's face.

"Is this ok?" Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow.

"Do you hear me telling you to stop?" John chuckles, a relieved smile tweaking his lips as he leans forward to kiss Sherlock once more. A second later Sherlock's boxers have joined the pile of clothes on the floor.

Tentative fingers curl around the rosy tip of Sherlock's erection and Sherlock can't contain a moan. It's such an unfamiliar sensation. John strokes Sherlock's shaft, his motions growing more and more confident at Sherlock's very vocal responses. John swirls his thumb around the head of Sherlock's penis, spreading around the beads of pre-cum forming there.

Sherlock shudders under John's ministrations, pulling the other man flush against him in the hope of increasing the friction. Their erections bump together and both men groan. Then it's all thrusting hips and needy open-mouthed kisses until both men shudder, gasping out their climaxes as they continue to rock against each other.

Panted breaths fill the apartment. A damp stain covers the front of John's boxer briefs.

"You're alive," breathes John, pressing forward to nestle into Sherlock's chest and doing his best to ignore the wet stickiness on his stomach. "You're actually alive."

"Yes, John," says Sherlock, an amused smile quirking up the corners of his lips. "I think we have quite thoroughly established that fact."

A chuckle shakes John's form.

"You're an arse."

"Which quite probably makes you a masochist," retorts Sherlock.

"Right, well, so long as I'm not also a necrophiliac." Sherlock chuckles, leaning down to press his lips to John's sandy locks.

"It's good to be back," he admits softly.

"It had better be," retorts John, "because if you ever die again, I'll shoot you myself."

"Wouldn't that be rather counterproductive?"

"Not the point, Sherlock. So not the point."

No vanishing act is complete until the vanished object has been made to reappear. Every good magician knows that, and Sherlock's finest performance was finally over.

*Author's Note: Well there you guys have it! I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading and please review with any feedback or requests for any other stories about these two lovebirds. :)*


End file.
